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<title>A Victorian Painter Named Dadd by Aboutnothingness (Thesherlockholmes)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28190790">A Victorian Painter Named Dadd</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Aboutnothingness'>Aboutnothingness (Thesherlockholmes)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(pre-Queen), Christmas Gift Fic, Early Queen (Band), Gen, Internal Monologue, Internalized Homophobia, Introspection, musings on good and evil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:08:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,219</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28190790</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Aboutnothingness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Currently, he is recalling a painting he saw a few months ago, something by Dadd. It’s a mad little painting of some imaginary land in that very peculiar old style that is nearly two dimensional in feeling and strangely exaggerated at points. Little people working away under mushrooms and fallen tree branches, coupled here and there, others running around, all in a forest, somewhere dark and curious.</em>
</p><p>Freddie thinks about his future during a quiet and terribly cold day at the stall.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Victorian Painter Named Dadd</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/gifts">nastally</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy Christmas, Nastally! It was with your marvellous writing that I was introduced to the world of Queen fic and saw just how gorgeous and meaningful it could be. You're the catalyst of my joining the online fandom and right from the beginning, you've supported my writing. You've continued to encourage my writing, always leaving thoughtful comments, and sharing my writing on tumblr! Thank you so much for the warm welcome, for your encouragement, and the absolute blessing of your writing in the fandom. You've truly made this the best fandom experience I've ever had and have brightened up this year for me more than you know. Best wishes to you in the New Year. ❤️</p><p>And with this work, dear readers, we go back to the days of when I was enamoured with early Queen. Remember those days? Wow that seems a long time ago... to think it's only been a few months!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>“I was fascinated by a Victorian painter named Richard Dadd. I was very inspired by his work and tried to capture the feelings in one of his pictures in a song.” –</em> Freddie Mercury</p><p>-</p><p>This is a fairytale.</p><p>Two men are freezing in a shop, in a small room in some corner of Kensington, the very centre of fashion in London. One dreams of becoming more than a mere incompetent artist, scribbling turning more into words than portraits. The other dreams of music, his hands blistered by drumsticks as he runs towards it, sure in his step, feet pounding the pavement of present and future.</p><p>The artist is rather lighter in step, approaching with the subtlety of a feline, his thoughts as of yet not fully formed.</p><p>Creation though, that cannot be stopped.</p><p>The town is being covered with snow and ice outside, it is not much warmer where they sit curled under a fur coat that must be forty years old and that will be passed off for three times its worth to pay the rent that month.</p><p>Freddie is resting his head on Roger’s shoulder, writing away in a notebook, pen occasionally stopping to tap the page a-rhythmically—slightly to Rogers annoyance—as he searches for a line, another fully formed thought, something precise to impossible degree. Currently, he is recalling a painting he saw a few months ago, something by Dadd. It’s a mad little painting of some imaginary land in that very peculiar old style that is nearly two dimensional in feeling and strangely exaggerated at points. Little people working away under mushrooms and fallen tree branches, coupled here and there, others running around, all in a forest, somewhere dark and curious.</p><p>It is rather what he feels the world around him to be, or, him to it. Rather out of place. A mere collection of facts from years of life. But, he has learned to be ruler of this land of his, this island. And one day it will be rich, he imagines, no longer impoverished and dark, no longer a need to root for scraps in the mud. His subjects all plump and happy and at peace.</p><p>Or—he glances up towards Roger in his musing, seeing the line of his jaw, his soft cheek—perhaps he will not be that sort of king at all. Perhaps, he will be positively evil.</p><p>Commanding with a strong hand, a bewitching look, unable to be turned down by anyone. Everything done and gotten for him, not a thing out of his reach or vision. He could own <em>everything</em> and <em>everyone.</em></p><p>Ashamed by the thought, he shirks away as if expecting Roger to read his thoughts and be disgusted.</p><p>“Oi, where’d you think you’re going? Two of us to keep warm’s kind of necessary.”</p><p>Roger sounds tetchy as he is on days he worries about money and getting the hell out of this mess.</p><p>“Just going to pop round the corner and pick us up some tea. They’ll make some for me there, you know.”</p><p>Roger sighs, exasperated, but relents. A cuppa isn’t to be turned down, at the least it’ll ease their empty, cramping stomachs.</p><p>He walks out into the cold, still thinking of the painting, of his reign.</p><p>The story, dear reader, is that the artist went mad, killed his father, painted a fairyland, central figure doing a useless task chucking away at a chestnut half his size. Our artist knows this, of course. He has poured over the painting for hours, looking at the expressions of faeries and goblins, wondering why someone painted it in the first place, why it matters, why he cares. Why he could just as easily create it himself.</p><p>He himself has been, silently and unspokenly, banished from his fathers house. If his father had his way, Freddie might well be locked away somewhere himself—punished for his now done away with <em>wants.</em> He has a girlfriend, of sorts. Rosemary’s a good girl, quite sweet. A chestnut he’s axing away at pointlessly. Joke of the townspeople, of the village.</p><p>It’s freezing outside, his fingers have gone numb, breath visible in front of him like a plume of smoke. Too bad he’s sworn off the ciggies, it’d be just the thing to warm him up. But his voice is to think of, his future goal to think of. Lyrics worked over for hours and hours, chords worked over for hours more.</p><p>It takes only a joke, a soft word, to get some tea—he’s quite good at getting his way when he wants—and then he must brave the icy wind back up the high street. The tea will hardly be warm by the time he gets back, purely the pointless task he knew it would be, an errand embarked on to work out his thoughts, to get away from the cloistered, too quiet shop. Deprive himself of the comfort of his friend he doesn’t deserve, give himself what he does just for a moment—coldness, barely surviving, the punishment of truth burning cuts into his cheeks.</p><p>Evil or good? Which is he, really? Nothing is ever so clear cut, not as he would wish, not like the order of chords, the meaning of sharps and flats—rising, falling, on a wave and then below, the pale of sleep, the brightness of waking, the uncertainty of a day. Harder nights even than those in Panchgani, and still he tries.</p><p>“Darling, I don’t think I did a good job of it. It’s probably cold now.”</p><p>“Everything’s bloody freezing. I hope you didn’t pay for that, we can’t afford it.”</p><p>“I <em>know</em>.”</p><p>“Good. Well, let me have it, some fucking warmth,” Roger’s tone is still low and annoyed, on the very edge of a fight.</p><p>Freddie hands it to him, slipping under the fur coat again. Then, he sees it. His notebook open in Roger’s lap.</p><p>“How fucking <em>dare </em>you look at that?” He snatches it back, snapping it shut.</p><p>“Excuse me for wanting to see what you’ve been working on all day.”</p><p>“Keep out of it.”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>They descend into tense quiet then, sipping their tea. Anger is warmth, they both suppose. It isn’t, not properly. This realisation also comes, seconds after.</p><p>“It’s good,” Roger says softly, tens of minutes later.</p><p>Freddie purses his lips, fiddles with his jewellery.</p><p>“I shouldn’t have, I know.”</p><p>“No it’s – it’s alright dear,” Freddie exhales exhaustedly, “I just – I don’t know, it’s just something.”</p><p>“Seems like a story?”</p><p>“Mm, yeah it is, I guess.”</p><p>“Who’s, uh,” Roger fumbles awkwardly trying to remember the lyrics, “Who’s the king of…”</p><p>“Rhye. Well, I,” He chews his lip, considers the truth and the half-lie, “No one, dear. Figment of imagination.”</p><p>“Some imagination you have,” Roger says chuckling, leaning into him slightly.</p><p>“All my flights of fancy. Actually, I’m considering writing something about this painting. You’d hate it, funny creatures, all sorts – “</p><p>“Who knows, maybe I’d love it. You’ll have to show me sometime.”</p><p>Back on good terms, the two men. Once again dreaming together of a future, of a story far better than one they currently know. The artist smiles softly, imagining a day in a warm museum, showing his friend the delights of art, of that hidden-away corner of his heart.</p><p>“Maybe I will, dear, maybe I will.”</p>
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